


The thing

by shittershutter



Category: The Walking Dead RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 23:10:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5803999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittershutter/pseuds/shittershutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So he calls it “a thing” and Norman doesn’t call it anything at all. </p><p>** glasses and titanium skull porn of sorts **</p>
            </blockquote>





	The thing

**Author's Note:**

> Aw, look what I finally watched. :)
> 
> ** unbetad and I'm sorry

“You miss me — you show up,” Norman says one day, pressing the key into Andy’s palm and bending the fingers to protect it. He then gives him a loud smooch and trots away, his greasy hair glistening in the sun in a magical way that is not entirely unattractive.

“Fucker,” Andy thinks warmly and doesn’t miss him for the whole eight minutes.

He still gets caught up in logistics of life for another month or two, but when he eventually arrives, the key fits.

On the other side of the door, there are a girl in a plush banana costume who looks ridiculously unimpressed with him as a whole and his choice of boots in particular and, of course, a cat. Without daring to provoke a conversation, Andy nods to both and walks himself to the only room that has a door in that place.

Norman looks up from his laptop and just says: “Ha!” before climbing Andy like a tree in this jungle of a city. “My assistant, the banana woman,” he adds, feeling the hesitation. “She’s cool with anything I do, including you.” He has his lenses off, and glasses on and they make him look vulnerable in a way that is more cute than heartbreaking. Andy looks into those eyes, paler and softer than he remembers them, and he knows he’s done.

Whatever touch and run with his conscience he was playing on the way here, is over. The cocktail of impending doom and liberation with a teaspoon of hope is what he’s drinking tonight and for the days to come.

He gives into the desperation and lets Norman undress him, the weariness from the road stripped away with each layer. It’s a blur after that, the groans, the smoky hot breath, and Norman’s knees spread offensively wide in invitation like he ever needs one.

Afterwards, he looks at Norman — tanned skin with faded ink, bite marks around his nipples and swollen mouth — and reaches out to touch the hair, just ghost of a touch with no intent. Transfixed with his phone still, the man leans into the hand without looking.

The phone collection is nothing new; Norman would take a lot of pictures of him even before they started their little private thing between the sheets of the nameless hotels’ rooms. Andy calls it “a thing” — he tries “having an affair” once — but with his close to the heart British accent it sounds extremely pretentious, both aloud and in his own head. So he calls it “a thing, ” and Norman doesn’t call it anything at all.

He just keeps the parts of Andy in there, nothing conspicuous — just textures of skin and patterns of moles and tiny hairs, fingers and lashes and lips — Norman dissects him with frightening precision any chance he gets and saves the pieces to carry them around.

He asks Norman if those are enough to feed the needs of the flesh. It’s meant as a joke, but the undertone is sadder than he’s intended.

Norman looks up from the patch of Andy’s bush in fancy black and white, all properly cropped and lit. “I’ll remember how I felt when I took it,” he says, dead serious. “Both the picture and your dick, I mean.”

It’s the most intricate “I love you” Andy’s heard in his existence. He grabs the man, the phone, and the glasses be damned and drags him into the second round.

He fucks Norman loose, slick with lube, shiny with sweat, until the soft fingers on his collarbones turn into claws, until the hot flesh around him spasms with each thrust up, until he curses, scratches and bites.

Andy grabs his head, pushing all the ridiculous hair away from his face. Norman struggles with it at first, he can tell, tries to turn and nuzzle his face into Andy’s palm when the staring contest becomes too intense, too intrusive, but the grip is firm, persistent.

Norman’s too many words and little ticks and cigarette smoke and tangled hand gestures. It takes rolling up sleeves and feeling for the rest of the person in the darkness underneath, but Andy’s patient. He manages.

Andy strokes him where the cyber skull hurts him the most — slides his thumb along the temple, the brow, the trembling eyelid, the soft puffy skin under the eye — and Norman sighs and lets his head stay where it is. His own hands come up, fingers digging into Andy’s forearms, and they are locked just like that, unable to break the eye contact.

“How long are you staying?” Norman rasps some time later, his head in the cloud of smoke and sunlight.

“Until those fade, that’s for sure”. He raises his arm and inspects the dents and half-formed bruises.

“Yeah well, I’m getting you the new ones in, like, an hour, just so you know”.

“Norm?”

“Yeah?” Norman turns his head and has to lean in really close to read the expression — so close Andy can see tiny red dents from the glasses on the bridge of his nose. There’s probably some anguish he sees when he squints really hard. “Aw, no,” he shakes his head. “Shut up,” and drags Andy into a deep kiss, smoke still bitter on his tongue.


End file.
